


what you were, what you are, what you still have to be

by fairyhill



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Other, alt. title: local woman still sad about Michael shelley, i both love and don't like gertrude and you can really tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25472209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairyhill/pseuds/fairyhill
Summary: Gertrude Robinson walked into her office on a dreary mid-December morning to find the thing that might once have been Michael Shelley already sitting behind her desk.
Relationships: Gertrude Robinson & Michael Shelley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 108





	what you were, what you are, what you still have to be

Gertrude Robinson walked into her office on a dreary mid-December morning to find Michael Shelley already sitting behind her desk. Or at least, something that may once have been Michael Shelley, and only partly, even then.

She closed the door behind her, and for a moment there was nothing. The creature that wasn't Michael Shelley was staring at her, possibly, every part of it wrong and distorted; its fingers were long and sharp, parts of it glitching in and out of existence. Its eyes were spirals. It was still wearing a winter jacket, and that, to her, was the most absurd thing.

And then the moment passed. The thing that wasn't Michael Shelley blinked and said, "Gertrude Robinson." Its voice was like the sound of nails dragging down a blackboard, the sound grating against her ears.

Gertrude figured that there wasn't much to be done if it wasn't going to say anything else or try to attack her, so she took off her bag and asked, “Can I help you? Or will you get out of my office on your own?”

The thing laughed, and that was infinitely worse than its voice; it tipped its head back and laughed, the sound almost maniacal, deranged.

“Can _you_ ,” it asked, still laughing, “help _me_? Now _that_ is a question, isn’t it, Gertrude Robinson?”

“It depends on what you qualify as a question.” A beat. And then, because Gertrude had never been one to ignore an itch: “Why are you still wearing his face?”

That shut it up effectively.

“Why am I wearing his face?” it mused, lifting up one of its hands so that it almost touched its face. It caught itself before it could, though, and said, “Because he is me now, I suppose.”

“I know yours is a Fear prone to lying,” Gertrude said disdainfully, “but please try and make them more convincing.”

The Distortion raised an eyebrow, fingers clicking against the wood of her desk. “I never said that I was him. I said that he was me. There’s a difference, Gertrude Robinson, that makes it the truth.”

She leaned back against the door and crossed her arms. “I don’t think I follow.”

The creature smiled, but it was more a baring of teeth. “I never expected you to.” It moved, but the action could only generously be described as _standing up_ ; it was an unfolding, if anything, a decompression of its form.

Gertrude wasn’t sure if she should feel threatened or not, so she decided to play it safe. “Why are you here?”

It paused again, looking almost confused. “I’m— He was strong here. I feel drawn to this place normally but . . .” It trailed off, the wistful look all too much like something Michael Shelley would have worn, and it put an ache that was equal parts unexpected and unwelcome in Gertrude’s heart. “But now it’s worse than ever.”

“You’re not welcome here,” Gertrude said. “You aren’t Michael Shelley, and you aren’t welcome here.”

The Distortion shook its head, echoes of its image remaining in the places it had been. “ _No_ ,” it snapped. “You don’t _understand_. I take my victims, but he gave himself over to me — however unwittingly — and now there are no lines between where the rest of me ends and he begins. All I can say is that I am not Michael Shelley. Michael Shelley is _me_.”

“Prove it,” Gertrude said.

“ _What_?”

“If the real Michael is a part of you,” she said, “I want you to prove it to me.”

The Distortion stared at her with its spiraling eyes, miniature voids of shifting hue. “Proof,” it said. “If by proof you mean memory, there’s much of that here, though it’s become—” A grin. “—Somewhat distorted. I remember birthday cakes and school desks and a mother who was a little too fond of knitting. But most of all, I remember you, Gertrude Robinson.”

“Come again?”

The Spiral’s smile broadened in a way that should have been impossible but wasn’t. “Oh yes," it said, something vicious creeping into its voice, and had it always been standing so close to her? “I remember you. He was so very fond of you, Gertrude. From the first day he got here, from that first conversation he had with you, he knew that he would follow you anywhere, to the ends of the Earth if need be. Do you remember what you talked about, that first day?”

“Of course,” Gertrude said, even though she really only remembered the idea of the conversation, the fact that she’d had it. “His employment.”

“Liar,” the Spiral snapped, and yes, it had definitely moved closer. “You talked about tea, and he memorized how you liked to take yours, all while that _insufferable_ Emma Harvey watched from the background — you should really look more into her, by the way. He thought you were _so_ smart and _so_ wise. He thought you were _wonderful_. And then you asked him to go with you to Sannikov Land and he was just _thrilled_ to know you trusted him so.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Gertrude asked, because she was at a loss, truly; none of what was happening made sense. The Spiral didn’t _hurt_ , didn’t feel things like attachment or pain. It simply _was_.

The thing that wasn’t Michael stepped back, looking pained. “I don’t know,” it said. “I don’t know. I don’t know what you did to me, when you sent him into the heart of me.”

“I stopped the Twisting,” Gertrude said. “That was all.”

“No, that wasn’t all. You proved you were worse than I could ever be, Gertrude Robinson.” It smiled at her, all teeth. “You proved that you’d save humanity in the blink of an eye, even if it meant sacrificing the very thing you were trying to save.”

“Be that as it may,” Gertrude snapped, patience wearing thin, “that still doesn’t explain _why you’re here_.”

It shrugged. “In all honesty, I think I just wanted to ask you _why_.”

“Why what?”

“Why you gave him over to me. Why you rid yourself of Michael Shelley like it meant nothing.”

Gertrude shrugged. “Simple. Because he was the only one in the break room at the time.”

A stunned silence. And the the Distortion laughed again, less spirited than before but no less bewildered. “That’s that, then,” it said. “And you say that _I’m_ the monstrous one. I'll take my leave now. Please don’t be hurt if I won’t keep in touch, Archivist.”

“Don’t worry” Gertrude said. “I won’t be.”

And then it was gone, as abruptly as it had come, and Gertrude was alone again. She gave herself all of one second to close her eyes before picking up her bag and sitting down before her desk, shuffling through the piles of paper on it. Michael was gone, or maybe he was a part of the Distortion now. It didn't matter.

There was work to be done.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, it is feeling sad about michael shelley hours.
> 
> follow me on [tumblr](https://fairy-hill.tumblr.com) because you have to always stay plugging


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